


hurt

by saltytangerine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The First Avenger, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Military, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltytangerine/pseuds/saltytangerine
Summary: “I know the officers got their own stash.” Bucky leans against the door to Steve's tent, still in his ripped greens, blood still crusted around his left ear. “Surely a captain has an allowance of whiskey? Rum? Hell, I'd take gasoline.”





	hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Have a quick thing I wrote this morning instead of actually writing what I wanted to write. 
> 
> PS I never write post-serum Steve and CA:TFA fucks me up every time I watch it.
> 
> Add this fic to the 25788 other rewrites of this incident ❤️

_Being peeled off the table doesn't hurt._

 

“We can do it in a day, maybe even two if you keep on talkin' about it rather than doin' it.” Steve stands in front of the men, his posture relaxed, still holding onto his shield, jacket tattered with bullet holes. His NCO backs him up, and they lead them out into the gray and wet evening. 

 

“I got a telegram--” Bucky keeps beside him, the first few miles he had a limp but twelve miles in, he can't feel his feet anymore. “I thought you run off, Murphy tells me that I need to stop sendin’ the rent to him, because you ain't there anymore.” He looks ahead and he's in front of the men; he is used to leading, his trainers back in Wisconsin told him he has “leadership qualities” and a “natural charm” which he wonders if they would still think now as he marches, shoulder to shoulder with his best friend, aching from head to toe, in need of a high pressure hosing down.

 

“I had to do what's right.” Steve glances at him but still keeps his eyes downcast. They're both still covered with soot and for a moment, he forgets his size and the change and they're walking back home with skinned knees and short trousers.

 

“Don't you think I know that?” Bucky's throat is dry and the forest is damp, the ground slick under their boots; his balance only kept by centering himself by holding his rifle low and close to his body. 

 

Night draws in and although Steve promised them they would be at camp by now, no one is upset that they're going to be sleeping without a tent, in the forest. Steve tells Bucky he'll do the first watch and Bucky forcefully grabs him by the front of his jacket and pulls him down so he's sitting at the foot of a tree. When he tries to stand to take this place on watch, Steve pulls him down in turn and when Bucky hisses as he sits down, neither of them say a word and neither of them sleeps with Steve's hand on Bucky's arm.

 

_His grip doesn't hurt._

 

“I know the officers got their own stash.” Bucky leans against the door to Steve's tent, still in his ripped greens, blood still crusted around his left ear. “Surely a captain has an allowance of whiskey? Rum? Hell, I'd take gasoline.”

 

“Go to medical, Buck.” His voice isn't much deeper; it's still light and still Steve. He still isn't convinced this isn't the result of something else they injected into him; if Steve smiling and bashful isn't a figment of his imagination.

 

“It's stupid, I know, but I ain't mad at you.” He sits on Steve's cot and for a moment, nothing has changed, it's like they're home, in the damp, bickering about Steve's lack of self preservation after Steve has lost a fight and Bucky's wasting another cut of meat on bringing out his bruises. 

 

“Why would you be mad at me?” Steve gets up from his chair and closes the flap of his tent. The canvas is dark green and the flap rolls closed, it blocks out the sunlight and the only light they have left is the orange lamp in the corner of the tent.

 

“Comin’ here.”

 

“It's a war, Buck.” Steve tugs at Bucky's ripped shirt and he notices Bucky freezes for a moment and then goes pliant, helping him take it off. His eyes are better now and he can see burns, cuts, bruises along Bucky's ribs and the moment he sees them, he knows he isn't going to let him sleep alone.

 

Bucky's shoulders draw up in a silent laugh and he looks down at his hands, dirty with soil, gun grease and blood. “Champ, you don't gotta tell me it's a war.”

 

 _The sleeping doesn't hurt_.

 

His cuts fade faster than Steve expects and by the time they get to London, he doesn't look like he's ever seen a day of combat. He doesn't have his normal hair cream and he gets by on two hours of sleep a night, but he looks like Bucky and sometimes he'll smile.

 

“You jumped across fire for me, Steve.” He offers quietly, sat on the window ledge, like he has done many times when they were at home, away from Europe, away from war. He sits cross legged, his boots on the ground, under the window. He hasn't buttoned his shirt up yet and it hangs open, he's smoked three cigarettes in quick succession and two of the butts have rolled off into the street below, while he holds the third between two long fingers. His look isn't far off from what Steve remembers; he looks like a boy, the same boy who sat on his doorstep for hours after “running away” when he broke his wrist. His laugh is empty and when he slips his boots back on, Steve can see the slight shake of his hand.

 

“You'd do the same for me.” He says. Since the serum, he stands taller, straighter, aware of his posture and body language, aware of some infinitesimally small gesture changing all nuance, but now he's in front of him again, he doesn't know how to stand, how to sit. He leans against the wall, peeking through the curtains, trying to see what Bucky's been staring at for the last half an hour. His voice isn't right and his eyes are still glassy at times, but he's Bucky, in one piece, still breathing and still alive. He can work with alive.

 

“Do you… Still.” He waves his left hand vaguely between the two of them and doesn't actually look up to meet Steve's gaze. Sure, they just marched too many miles and were dragged all the way to London, but Bucky looks tense; Steve can see how tight he's clenching his jaw and how he's scratching the palm of his hand with his ring and little fingers. The barracks aren't as nice as the one he left in America, but they're still similar. He is supposed to sleep in the NCOs billet and Steve has been allocated an officer's quarters but after Steve found out about one single nightmare, he found himself behind a door that said “Captain Rogers” every night, past lights out. They sleep the short hours with Steve's chest pressed against Bucky's back; sometimes clothed, sometimes not. Bucky knows he isn't the same Bucky that Steve remembers and although he kisses him all the same, the fear that Steve is just trying to keep him happy makes him feel sick to his core. “Even after--”

 

“Of course…” He steps forward and out of habit, he closes the curtains when Bucky stands. He isn't sure he'll ever get used to being taller than Bucky, or his chest being broader. What he is sure of is that his hands finally feel the right size when he now cups the back of Bucky's head and when his hand fits in the small of his back. He isn't pressing, but he wants to feel him, he needs to make sure he's real and he's sure Bucky feels just as awkward now he has to look up to him. His dog tags hang delicately on his neck, the rectangle of metal resting just below his breastbone and when he gets lost in his head, he silently reads out his tags, a reminder that Bucky made it out, Bucky is here with him.

 

“Cause, you know, you ain't obliged to.”

 

“I kinda wanna be.”

 

“You're a real fuckin sap, Rogers. Gonna get me shot.” His laugh is empty and although he's going to struggle with the new height difference, he's alright with wrapping his left arm around Steve's neck and Steve's hand on the waistband of his trousers. He had begged for death on the table and only ever gave his name, rank and number, and he was being rewarded, with the promise of Steve. The photo he had of Steve before the war, folded and small, tucked behind the sweatband of his helmet, is gone, dirtying up some forest in Europe, but that Steve is gone for the meantime and he has a new Steve.

 

“We'll just have to be careful; loose lips sink ships and all that, right?” Bucky almost bites when he kisses him, his hands fisted in the officer issue shirt. “We just won't say a word.”

 

“Words are overrated, you snuggling me is overrated--” He knows they're supposed to be meeting in the pub in an hour, but he's sick of spooning and he's sick of Steve barely touching him. In a moment of clarity, he wonders if this is how Steve felt when he would treat him too kindly when he was sick; a fine water spray misted over a burning building. He tugs Steve's shirt tails from under his waistband and he unbuttons his pants, chest pressed against his.

 

“I thought you liked it.” Steve knows this, in his new life, he finally knows something. He knows how to get reactions from Bucky, he knows that he goes weak when he sucks on the spot by his throat, when he tugs his hair. He crowds Bucky against the wall of his room, pinning him there as he kisses back, undoing his pants in return. He trusts Bucky more than Erskine, the serum, more than Agent Carter, and so when he feels his hard dick pressing against his, he knows that he can be a little selfish and take what they both want him to take.

 

“I need you to fuck me. I need it, Steve--” He's almost begging, one breath away from falling onto his knees and pleading with his face pressed against Captain America's dick. He knows it'll hurt, but it doesn't stop him from holding his breath when he feels Steve's hands on his rear. “I appreciate you treatin me soft, but I fuckin' need it.”

 

“Buck-- they--” He doesn't want to say it, but he needs to hear Bucky say yes.

 

“Fuck me.” He almost growls.

 

_London doesn't hurt._

 

He slowly starts to feel like Bucky again; his new uniform is blue and Steve whispers in his ear every chance that he gets about how much he likes him in blue. He will follow Steve anywhere, like the cameras follow Captain America. He shares his tents, his meal rations, and as 2iC, no one bats an eyelid.

 

"When this war's over, we should go west, take me to see the Grand Canyon with your fancy officers pay." He presses a kiss into Steve's shoulder, and when Steve kisses his cheek, he can finally see a little light at the end of the tunnel.

 

_~~The fall doesn't hurt~~. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/saltietangerine) and [Tumblr](http://saltytangerine.tumblr.com), comments and kudos are always welcomed! Thanks for making it this far down!


End file.
